User blog comment:Bartholomew Billberry Bowstring/Mossflower Country & Beyond/@comment-25220117-20121101173924/@comment-25220117-20121115173619

''The day ahead was indeed fated to be a strange one, though it began as usual. Bulgorn and several of his fellow officers roaring, beating, threatening, booting and cuffing the drowsy wave vermin into wakefulness, a typically harsh tradition that didn't increase the fat stoat's popularilty much. All but one crewbeast were soon hastily dressing and heading upstairs, the weasel Grimlett, who hadn't even moved from his position in the ragged, foul-smelling hammock. Scrunching his nose against the smell, a tall, gray-bearded searat cuffed the weasel's ear for the third time that morning, before finally throwing Grimlett's prone body from the bed, expecting him to rise immediately with a painful groan. The weasel landed with a dull thud to the floor. Staring in confusion for a moment at the unwakened Grimlett, who did not even stir as he fell, the searat finally bent down, an ear against his chest. Shaking his head, the searat hauled the corpse onto the deck, curiousity on his usually stern, rough-featured face''